I signed up because of the word chair.

It suggested safety.
Stability.
Maybe even something involving gentle stretching while sipping herbal tea.

Let me tell you:

Lies were told.

Chair yoga is not innocent.

It’s not peaceful.
It’s not seated meditation with a little arm lift here and there.

It is a full-body ambush disguised as something you could do in your kitchen with a nice soundtrack and sensible shoes.

The instructor was chipper in that “I’ve never been tired a day in my life” way.

She welcomed us with open arms and neon leggings and said, “Don’t worry — this is all about moving at your own pace.”

My pace, for the record, is somewhere between gentle driftwood and still technically alive.

But this class had other ideas.

We began seated, yes.

But then came the spine twists.
Then the arm raises.
Then the “engage your core” reminder.

(Why is that phrase always shouted like a battle cry?)

At one point, we were instructed to “float one leg at a time.”

“Float” is an optimistic word.

What I did was more like hoist.
Like hauling groceries up apartment stairs.

Then came standing work.

Yes — standing. In chair yoga.

They called it “supported warrior pose.”

What it actually was: a very public negotiation between me, my balance, and the folding chair beneath me.

The chair was not emotionally prepared for this.

Neither was I.

I held onto the back of it like a woman hanging off the side of a cruise ship.

The instructor chirped, “Lift your back heel!”

Ma’am, if I lift my back heel, we are all going down together.

By now, I was sweating.

Not glistening — sweating.

And not in a way that says, I’m working out!

More like:
I might be experiencing a small internal emergency.

The chair wobbled.

My knee made a sound I can only describe as “regret.”

My shirt rode up in the back.

I reached to fix it, then remembered I was still in warrior pose and nearly toppled sideways into Doris, who was fully nailing it in orthopedic sandals and a bun.

We returned to seated poses after that, thank God.

Or at least, we tried to return to seated poses.

Have you ever tried lowering yourself into a chair using only your thighs and shame?

It’s humbling.

And just when I thought I could coast to the finish line, she said the words that haunt me still:

“Let’s bring the left ankle up and over the right thigh.”

What?

Lady, my left ankle is on a loyalty program with the floor.

It does not go places.

But I tried.

I bent.
I reached.

I pulled something I didn’t even know I had.

And then — because why not — I got a cramp in my foot.

A full clenched, toes-like-claws situation.

I panicked. Tried to stretch it.

Instead, I knocked my water bottle off the chair and sent it clattering across the floor like a rogue bowling pin.

People turned.

I smiled, defeated.

This is what chair yoga had become:

A live demonstration of what happens when optimism collides with anatomy.

A room full of women moving with grace, and one woman locked in a cramp battle whispering:

“Breathe through it, Mary.”

Eventually we got to savasana, the resting pose.

“Let your body be still,” she said.

Finally.

Some instructions I could follow.

I sat upright, closed my eyes, and let my body go limp in a way that was 70% peaceful and 30% orthopedic surrender.

When it was over, the instructor said, “You did beautifully.”

I nodded.

Because technically, I was still alive.

And honestly?

That felt like enough.

What I Learned

Chair yoga is not for the faint of heart.

It is not a spa treatment with light stretching.

It is a gladiator match between your pride and your joints.

But also?

It reminded me that even when I feel broken, slow, or like I’m moving through soup —

I can still show up.
Still try.
Still laugh halfway through a foot cramp and say:

“Well, that’s new.”

And that, friends, is the real flexibility.

Chair yoga: expectations vs reality.

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MaryMonokySpeaks.com

Writing about identity, uncertainty, emotional endurance, and learning to live inside changed realities.

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